


Head Games

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Think I ain't known about you since you was still hidin' behind mama's skirts when you got in shit? You been payin' more attention to dick than tits since you was twelve, little brother."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head Games

**Author's Note:**

> Season One. Written for LJ's tamingthemuse community, for the prompt "head games". Merle is a racist, and his view are not mine. Daryl/Glenn pre-slash.
> 
> * * *

After the first few days at camp, Daryl tries to settle into a routine.

He's up with the sunrise, checking on the banked coals from the previous night and brewing up the last of their instant coffee before the rest of the group has even started to stir in their tents. He grunts a hello when Merle rises and grabs a mug, ignores the flask that Merle drags from his pocket and the slop of the alcohol being added to Merle's share. Doesn't pay all that much attention when Merle wanders off, whether to check their snares at the tree line or just take his morning piss.

Daryl settles on the log in front of the embers of their fire pit, pulls his arrows close and drags his rag from his back pocket.

He's meticulous about their cleaning. Some might say too meticulous, but he doesn't have enough arrows to set some aside just for the hunt and others just for killing geeks, and the last thing they need is contamination getting into the deer and squirrel he brings in for their meals.

Besides, he likes it. Likes the simplicity of moving the rag over all the nooks and crevices, the warm sun beating down on the back of his neck. He even likes the trickle of sweat coursing down his spine, because it reminds him that he's alive. He likes to listen to the sounds of the camp coming to life. And he likes to observe, to look up every now and then to let his eyes track the movements of the rest of the group. It's how he catches the cop brushing against Lori's shoulder as they pass, furtive glances and quick smiles; how he notices the way Carol's eyes skitter down and away whenever her asshole of a husband looks at her, long before the bruises start showing up. 

He likes to watch Glenn.

The kid is usually one of the last to get up, often blinking and stumbling from his tent practically like a walker himself. He has his own routine, Daryl has noticed: a stretch and a face scratch, a grimace, then a duck back into his tent before he reemerges with travel-size shaving cream and a razor. Glenn crouches by his tent and has his own meticulous cleaning ritual every morning. 

Then Glenn makes up for his sloth, starts his morning rounds. A climb to the top of the RV to check out the landscape. A brief parlay with the cop; a joke and a smile for the blondes. This time when he bends to talk to the rugrats, he even manages to coax a smile from Sophia. Daryl watches it all, just like he does every morning. 

Watches, and swipes the red rag methodically over his arrows; uses his thumbnail to dig out the persistent grime. Watches, and grits his teeth, and ignores the ache in his chest. 

"Hard at work," Merle says. 

Daryl shrugs, shoves over on the log when Merle straddles it beside him. The mug cradled in one of Merle's scarred hands smells more like whiskey than stale Folgers; it lingers on Merle's breath when he exhales and pulls out one of the few of his dwindling supply of cigarettes.

Daryl glances across the campsite – now Glenn is gathering up the empty water jugs – before squinting across at his brother. "You check the snares?"

"They're too close to the camp," Merle says. "I told ya that when you set 'em up. No self-respectin' rabbit's gonna come in this close."

"Maybe we find one with no self-respect," Daryl suggests. He sets the clean arrow aside, reaches for another. Decides that Merle never really answered him at all; he'll have to sidetrack to check the snares himself before he heads out on today's hunt. Might be that the snares worked after all. Might be that he could just relax for once, take a day off instead of tramping through the woods and getting covered in damn ticks.

He scans the camp – yup, the kid's loading up the old jeep, gonna be making a run down to the quarry for water – before turning his attention back to his arrows.

"You like him," Merle says.

The motion of the rag stills before Daryl can stop it; he narrows his eyes, tries to cover it by concentrating on digging out a stubborn blot of dirt on the nock. The log moves when Merle shifts his weight, and he tenses. It occurs to him belatedly that if he'd simply plastered a confused expression on his face and asked "who", he might've had a chance of avoiding a conversation. As it is, he's waited too long, and a side-glance tells him that Merle knows it.

Still, he has to try. "Don't know what you're talkin' about," he says.

"The chink," Merle clarifies. "I seen the way you look at him."

Daryl tries to ignore the triphammer beat in his heart, resolutely determines not to look up as he digs vigorously at a stain on the arrow's shaft that only he can see. "Maybe ya oughta lay off on the Comfort," he tries, "if it's gonna make you start halllucinatin'."

Merle snorts. "Think I ain't known about you since you was still hidin' behind mama's skirts when you got in shit? You been payin' more attention to dick than tits since you was twelve, little brother." 

"Told ya, I don’t know—"

"Hell, there was that kid… what was his name? Skinny little runt. Matt? Mac? Saw ya playin' tonsil hockey with him once down the marsh."

"Mark," Daryl murmurs, the name squeezed reluctantly from a throat suddenly too tight. He gives up on the cleaning, closes his eyes. 

He hasn't let himself think about Mark in years. 

He'd been older by a year or two, someone he occasionally passed in the halls. A sloe-eyed dark-haired boy from the good part of town, such as it was. Daryl had watched him, the same way he watched everyone then. The same way he watches everyone now.

And when Mark followed him behind the school one day at lunch Daryl had dropped his smoke on the ground, had squared his shoulders, expecting a fight. No reason to expect one, except that that's usually what happened when someone sought him out. But all Mark had done was say, "I know" and look at him. Daryl distinctly remembers the fear that had filled him when he realized exactly what it was that Mark knew – fear of being found out, fear of Merle and his old man if they knew, fear of this kid spreading the rumours, fear of what it would all mean – and he had balled his fists, certain now that he was going to end up bloodied and bruised but also sure that he would give as good as he got. But when Matt raised a hand, it was only to brush fingers along his bare arm. 

He never knew Merle had a clue.

He only realizes he's clenched his fingers tight around the old rag when they begin to cramp. He forces himself to relax, opens his eyes and lifts his head to see Merle watching him, head cocked, eyes alight with amusement.

"Thought you were pullin' something over on ol' Merle, huh?"

They'd had plans, him and Mark. Plans to get out of the two-horse town they grew up in. Plans to travel west, to make something of themselves. To be _more_.

He wants to tell Merle this, to explain what it was like to feel so alone and then to finally find someone who understood. Wants also to get up, to run, to be anywhere but here with his brother, talking about this. But he finds that he can do nothing, can neither open his mouth nor get his legs to work. He can only sit, staring at the flattened grass between his work boots, breathing heavily.

"Hell," Merle continues, "you was just born that way, ain't that it? Least that's what all the 'experts' say these days."

Daryl raises his head, but it takes him three attempts to open his mouth. "Merle—"

"You can't help it. It's just what you are, am I right? A fag?"

Daryl knows that the hustle and bustle of the camp hasn't abated one iota. Somewhere, Lori is starting breakfast for the cop and her kid; Dale and Jim are fretting over the RV's substandard parts; Jacqui and Carol are gathering up the washing. But his world has narrowed down to the rough bark of the log, the rag clutched limply in his hand, his brother's sharp blue eyes. 

He manages a single, spasmodic nod.

"And ya got the hots for a chinaman," Merle says. "End of the goddamn world, so I guess you can't be picky. And hey, it coulda been worse. Coulda been the nigger."

Daryl glances around quickly, but it appears that no one overheard. The camp is going about its business, and mostly that business involves ignoring the Dixon brothers. He easily picks out the single black man in the group, calls himself T-Dog of all things. He hasn't had the chance to exchange more than a couple of words with the guy around the campfire at night, but he seems okay. But then, Daryl never did have any problems with black people. Or Asians, or Jews, or any of the other groups that Merle made it his business to fuck with whenever he had a mind to. 

He looks back at Merle in time to see his brother purse his lips and let out a low whistle. 

"Goddamn chinaman," Merle says again. "Well, you wanna chase after him, I can't stop ya. Just don't come runnin' to me if he tries to punch your teeth in."

Daryl swallows around a dry throat. His arms are thrumming with unreleased tension, his shoulders stiff and sore, but he feels like if he moves even an inch he'll break this spell. It's like suddenly being dropped into one of the books he used to read on his lunch break at the plant, except instead of finding himself in a world of mages and dragons he's suddenly in some strange alternate universe where he doesn't have to hide who he is for fear of being belittled or abandoned. Where Merle actually accepts him. 

He slowly releases a breath. His arms feel like liquid, like he's just done a hundred press-ups at the gym. The rush that fills him takes longer to identify – a heady mix of elation, exhilaration, and blind panic. 

And he curses himself for ten kinds of fool, but he has to ask. "You okay with this?"

"I didn't say that, boy. Don't be puttin' words into my mouth, now," Merle says. "But it ain't my life. You do what you think you need to do." He uses Daryl's shoulder to lever himself up from the log, squeezes just a little too tight. "I'll do the same."

Daryl still has an arrow in his lax grip when Merle turns away toward the tent. He rotates the shaft in his hand, watches the play of light on the orange and yellow fletching. Everything seems brighter now. The air even seems cleaner. 

He raises his head to squint across the clearing, finds Glenn standing with Shane next to the jeep, nodding his head at something the cop is saying. In a minute, maybe two, Shane will hand over the keys and Glenn will hop into the driver's seat and be gone. But if he hurries, he might be able to make it to the other side of the campsite in time. Might be able to offer to go with Glenn down to the watering hole. Could suggest that two people could fill up the containers a lot quicker than one. 

Maybe he could get to know Glenn a little better. 

The sweat trickling down his back turns to ice water at the thought. 

Glenn's got the keys now. In a second he'll be behind the wheel. 

Daryl stands, takes a halting step forward, starts to raise his hand. Opens his mouth to call out across the clearing.

"Whatever happened to that Mark kid?" Merle asks from behind him. "Hit and run, wasn't it?"

Daryl falters, his hand dropping back to his side. 

He had no reason to go to the funeral – no one knew he even knew the boy – so he had to sneak out of class to do it, stopping at the bathroom to slick back his unwashed hair, feeling conspicuous in his hand-me-down jeans and a T-shirt that had seen better days. He'd crept cautiously to the coffin and then stood there for what felt like days, staring at too-pale hands that didn't even look real, hands that used to creep under his shirt and caress his warm skin, fingers that used to make him shiver. 

He barely made it back outside. Threw up his lunch all over the pavement, brushed off the hand of a woman that came over to see if he was all right. Ran all the way home, stopping only to pick up his bow and then went straight to the woods behind their property, camped out for days. Still has the scars on his back from what his old man thought of that.

"Never did find out who hit him, did they?" Merle continues. 

Daryl turns slowly, his feet like lead, spine rigid. Behind him, he hears the jeep door slam. Hears Glenn call out some kind of farewell to the kids. 

Feels his world slip and slide under his feet as it grinds back onto its axis.

"No," he grits out.

"Sure was a sad thing," Merle drawls. He looks down at the cold coffee in his hand before tossing the mug onto the ground and taking a swig of whisky straight from the flask. "Dangerous world."


End file.
